I will conclude what I have to say of him
singly, with this one remark: a lady of my acquaintance, who keeps a
kind of correspondence with some authors of the fair sex in France,
has been informed by them that Mademoiselle de Scudery, who is as old
as Sibyl, and inspired like her by the same god of poetry, is at this
time translating Chaucer into modern French. From which I gather that
he has been formerly translated into the old Provencal (for how she
should come to understand old English I know not). But the matter of
fact being true, it makes me think that there is something in it like
fatality; that, after certain periods of time, the fame and memory of
great wits should be renewed, as Chaucer is both in France and England.
If this be wholly chance, 'tis extraordinary, and I dare not call it
more for fear of being taxed with superstition.
Boccace comes last to be considered, who, living in the same age with
Chaucer, had the same genius, and followed the same studies; both writ
novels, and each of them cultivated his mother tongue.
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